


Poltergeists (Not an experiment)

by okeydokey (LilMissNerdfighter)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hamish is far too intelligent, John hates Mondays, M/M, Sherlock is on a case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMissNerdfighter/pseuds/okeydokey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John comes home from work one day, the last thing he wants to do is deal with poltergeists. Unfortunately, the Universe has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poltergeists (Not an experiment)

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who wondered how Sherlock and John aquired Hamish (well, in this Universe anyway).

It had been another stupidly long day at the Surgery. Not only had three different kids come in complaining about phantom stomach aches, Sarah had come down with the flu and so he had had to take all of her appointments. Then, the shop down the road had sold out of his favourite type of sandwiches (he knew he could’ve made them himself, but there was _something_ in their jam which stopped him every time). Finally, as if to top it all off, it was raining as he waited for a taxi, and within no time at all he was soaking wet. God, he hated Mondays.

So, when he had finally climbed the stairs leading to 221b and noted that the flat was quiet, all he wanted was a cup of tea. John was pleased that Sherlock was out on a case- he had been getting restless, and -as much as he loved the man- he was bloody annoying when he was restless. He  would’ve probably demanded that John _observe_ things, about a new experiment or something, and John was not in the right mind-set to observe anything more than crap TV.

John knew that something was wrong as he searched the cupboards for the missing sugar. He knew that he probably should be more concerned about this feeling and he should be looking for what was off. As it was though, he frankly didn’t give a damn. Finding the sugar (behind the sulphuric acid and the calcium carbonate) John spooned too much into his cup and stirred, wondering how long Sherlock would be out for. He missed going on cases with him, he really did. Real life just got in the way most of the time. Apparently gallivanting around London with his boyfriend (of seven months, thank you very much) was not a valid excuse for missing work. So, going on cases became Sherlock’s ‘thing’ and John only joined him on the weekends, or when he felt he could get away with having a sick day. He was fortunate that Sarah was his friend; otherwise he didn’t think she would be quite so lenient- he missed far more work that he should’ve.

John pinged the tea bag into the bin (he had been practicing; it was a shame Sherlock wasn’t around to see), grabbed his mug and headed in the direction of his armchair. He barely glanced at the basket on the table; it was not the most bizarre thing Sherlock had left there, by far. Anyway, whatever was in there was covered by a blue blanket, which hinted that John should not disturb it. He smiled at that; there was no way he wanted to see what Sherlock was experimenting on without prior warning.

He was just settling into his chair when there was a sound in the kitchen. The John of seven months ago would’ve jumped and probably grabbed his gun, before aiming it in the direction of the noise. Then again, John had been hugely paranoid and generally prone to brandishing weapons in the three years following Sherlock’s death. He’d relaxed so much since Sherlock had come home, and although he had almost no idea what Sherlock had been doing in those years, he didn’t care as much as he should have. Sherlock was back, and that was something he still marvelled at, even now.

‘Hello?’ John called out, imaging Sherlock rolling his eyes at his stupidity. Unless whoever-whatever- was making the noise happened to be Moriarty, they were hardly going to yell back, ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just making a sandwich. Take your time; you can die whenever you want’. John waited, but there was no answer. Obviously. It was probably just the wind, or a far-away siren, he told himself. Yes, that’s all it is. John took another sip of his tea and grabbed a battered book off the stack by his chair. _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_. He began reading where he left off, quickly becoming absorbed in the story.

A little while later, laughter from the kitchen brought him back to reality. _God, why don’t I have a towel?_ John wondered, using a ruler as a bookmark. His tea was long gone by this point, having been drained as he read. There was a loud crash and more laughter- which was more like giggling, than crazed laughter. He needed more tea. And a towel.

Another crash. The kitchen was empty, and there was no-one else in the flat. Where the fuck was his gun? He was not ready for laughing poltergeists. Fuck, he hated Mondays. It occurred to him that he might’ve been overreacting slightly, and that really, the likelihood of poltergeists was incredibly rare. Then again, stranger things had happened.

‘Who’s there?’

Was the basket on the table _moving_? Definitely a poltergeist. Right. Okay. Sherlock has brought a poltergeist home. Brilliant. Deep breaths, Watson, you didn’t spend all that time in the army for nothing. You can deal with this, c’mon. John picked up the heaviest book he could find and approached the basket slowly, cautiously, his left hand steady. Why didn’t I pay more attention to those supernatural shows that Harry used to watch? Watson, you are an idiot.

There was another giggle and the basket shook again. John summoned up all of his courage and charged.

‘Geronimo!’ 

Waving the book above his head, he yelled, laughing at how ridiculous he was being. The basket laughed too, and a pink limb waved. John halted. What the hell was that? Lowering his ‘weapon’, he jumped over some shoes and arrived abruptly at the basket. The sight that greeted nearly made him pass out.

There sat a baby, waving at him, with a familiar smile. The poltergeist was a toddler! John wasn’t honestly sure which was worse. The child watched as John panicked. There was a baby in his flat! Sherlock hadn’t kidnapped a toddler for an experiment, had he? No, even Sherlock knew that was completely wrong. Then why the fuck was there a baby on his kitchen table? What was going on? Why couldn’t it have been a poltergeist?

‘Hello,’ the child lisped. John froze, had it just spoken? Right, don’t panic, Watson. Just… respond. Don’t make it angry, they bite. Or was that dogs?

‘Hi.’ John replied in a quiet voice. Okay, so what now? What rules applied when talking to babies? Why hadn’t he listened to Sarah when she had told him that he needed to learn how to work with small children? ‘Umm… what’s your name then?’

‘Hamish.’ Right. The kid was called Hamish. Ha. Poor kid, what an awful name- he would know. Hamish was looking up at him expectantly, with huge blue eyes. What did he want? Oh. ‘I’m John. John Watson, at your service.’ He gave Hamish a small salute, which made the boy burst into fits of giggles. He saluted again, enjoying the way the kid’s face lit up when he laughed.

‘I know.’ Hamish told him quite seriously, once he had finished giggling at John’s saluting. ‘You’re mother’s friend.’

‘Oh, am I now?’ John frowned slightly, trying to work out who had left their kid on his kitchen table. Not Sarah (he had seen her three days ago, and there had been no mention of children), Molly (certainly not), Harry (God, no)? ‘Who’s your mother then?’

‘Umm…’ Hamish considered that for a little while. After apparently considering every possible parent that he could have, he shook his head, black curls bouncing up and down. ‘Dunno.’

‘Right.’ John rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling very awkward. ‘Did your mum say how long she was going to be?’

‘Mother,’ Hamish corrected, before reaching forward to grab at a bottle which was dangerously near the basket. John automatically moved the container out of Hamish’s way, before he could do anything.

‘Okay… What about your… father?’

‘Here.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Father is here.’ Hamish was now trying to climb out of the basket. Well, he had stayed still for quite a while, John supposed. So, he picked Hamish up, trying his best to mimic the position parents on the posters always seemed to be frozen in. Hamish struggled a little before resigning himself to his fate.

‘Now?’ John jostled Hamish up and down until his scowl stopped him. Where had that kid learnt to scowl like that- had he been taking lessons from Sherlock?

‘No, not _now_.’ Hamish sighed dramatically. John moved to flick the switch on the kettle, holding Hamish on his hip. Tea was what he needed. Tea, and for Sherlock to come home- he needed backup.

‘Where- no, _who_ is your father?’ John chewed his lip, hoping to get a straight answer out of Hamish this time.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Hamish insisted, trying to escape again. John lowered him to the floor, wondering how the toddler was so energetic on such a bizarre Monday.

‘But it does!’

‘The letter!’

‘Of course, the letter.’ John rolled his eyes, suddenly feeling like the child. What was it with guys with black curls and making him feel like an idiot? John checked the top of the basket, and sure enough there was a note. Brilliant, Hamish knew more than he did. There came the sound of books falling to the floor, and hysterical giggling. ‘Are you okay, Hamish?’

‘Yep!’ laughed Hamish, from on top a landslide of reference books. He seemed perfectly content to play there for a little while, and John figured he couldn’t get in too much trouble in the time it took to read a note.

Perching himself on edge of the kitchen table, John flipped the envelope the right way round. It was addressed to Mr Watson-Holmes, in cursive. John smirked at that, Mr Watson-Holmes. Maybe one day. Not wanting to linger on the address for much longer, to consider the possibilities, John tore the envelope in half. There, that sorted that one.

_Hello, dear (hey, John),_

_It’s been a while, twenty five months and thirteen days, to be exact. Paris, wasn’t it? I love Paris, it’s so… perfect. Do you remember the Eiffel Tower, and that little café by the fountain? I do._

_Anyway Sherlock, I’m not writing this note- how apt- to reminisce, I’m writing to relinquish rights of Hamish- thank you for the name, John! You see, as much as I like the child, I can’t keep him. Not only is he far too much like you for my liking (too observant, too intelligent, won’t stay still), he’s interfering with my work. As I am sure you can understand, the Work comes first. No son can compete with that._

_So, my dear, it’s your turn. Hamish is your son and now he’s your responsibility._

_Maybe we can have dinner sometime?_

_Irene x_

_P.S. Congratulations on finally accepting what we all knew, John. I told you that you two were already a couple._

John dropped the letter to the ground as if it had burnt him. That child, Hamish, was Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s and Irene’s. Sherlock and Irene had a kid. Hamish was Sherlock and Irene’s kid. Oh fucking hell! How was that even possible? John slammed his hand against the table, knocking an empty mug to the floor. Just when he had thought that everything was finally going to be okay, this had to happen.

He slid to the floor, burying his head in his hands. Bloody Irene. Why did she have to come along and screw everything up? He opened his mouth to yell, but nothing came out. He sat there in silence, as the flat grew dark, mind racing. Twenty five months, two years and one month and thirteen days. Which made Hamish how old? Sixteen months give or take a couple of weeks. Wow, he was an intelligent kid. Well, he is Sherlock’s. Sherlock has a kid. John sank to the floor, resting his head in his hands. Bloody hell. He hadn’t seen that coming.

What must’ve been a couple of hours later, John felt something stir by his arm. There, leaning against him, was Hamish. Hamish Holmes. He wasn’t making a sound, he was sleeping peacefully, and must have been for some time. How had John forgotten that he was there? He looked so adorable as he slept, all black curls and rosy cheeks. And in that moment, as he watched Sherlock’s kid sleep, something changed John’s mind. He had been hatching a scheme involving giving the kid to Mummy Holmes (who was desperate for a grandchild). But the sight of Hamish snuggling up against arm, so trusting of a man who had wanted to make him disappear, made John’s heart melt a little. He hated that phrase, but if the shoe fits…

So, that was why two hours later, when Sherlock came home, he found John setting up a make-shift bed by the fire as Hamish watched, grinning so wide his face might’ve split in half. 


End file.
